


of poets and embroidery

by kovisk



Series: subconscious outcomes [1]
Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, at least for cristiano, cristiano is literally a struggling poet, early mornings mean poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4747187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kovisk/pseuds/kovisk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lights peers through the embroidery laced curtains. It's the morning and the silence is both lonely and comforting for Cristiano. The golden skin etched with shadows of lace across James back looks haunting. The whisper of sheets; the smell of spice and a soft undertone of floral; sun warmed skin. It's beauty and loneliness sewn together by embroidery curtains and silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of poets and embroidery

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour, Allistor  
> Just something lame I conjured up while trying to sleep at three in the morning. It's short? Or at least moderately, may be slightly off character.  
> But. hey, I tried. And I think that, at least, deserves a B-

_5:15 am._

It is not dawn, but it is close enough that the skies turn slowly. Shifting subtly, like the whisper of the sheets, on the other bed. Cristiano thinks it's comforting, to watch the skies shift through embroidery curtains. It's quiet, except for quiet Spanish music played somewhere in the narrow streets below. It sounds relaxing -appropriate to be played in the morning- but with an undertone of sadness.

They're in a small Colombian city, though far enough from the high-rise, that you can't hear the early morning bustle. James, of course, asked to bring him along to Colombia. And with those, bright hopeful, brown eyes, who could say no? Certainly not Cristiano. So here they are. A moderately sized room with two beds; single bathroom, and floor to ceiling windows. Usual furniture, though the colors vary. From the blacks of coffee tables to the comforting corals of throw pillows. Pale embroidery curtains are drawn to ward off the glare, though light flickers in.

The lights peers through the embroidery laced curtains. It's the morning and the silence is both lonely and comforting for Cristiano. The golden skin etched with shadows of lace across James back looks haunting. The whisper of sheets; the smell of spice and a soft undertone of floral; sun warmed skin. It's beauty and loneliness sewn together by embroidery curtains and silence.

Cristiano waits, listening to the silence, quiet breathing. Before he rises, the sheets whisper as they slip and fall. Before settling slowly onto the bed. Creating white ravines and mountains. James sleeps quietly on the other bed. White sheets tangled around his legs, leaving his sun-kissed torso exposed. Hair slightly mussed, but the reflecting dawn leaves a faint halo. He looks fragile, young. Cristiano thinks, perhaps, the halo leaves a correct representation of James. Young, sensitive, _holy_.

James stirs slightly, shifting his head slightly. Fingers tighten their hold onto the white sheets. One arm tucked under a coral colored pillow. He looks like a painting, the very ones drawn with precision onto empty canvasses, in the many museums of the small Columbine city. Cristiano rises from the edge of the bed, draws near to the fragile body exposed. He brushes his knuckles across James forehead, a ghost of a touch. James seems to lean into the touch, or perhaps that's only what Cristiano wants to believe.

The sheets tangled around James waist, are a sharp contrast to the golden skin. As skies shift, from blazes of orange  to a calmer undertone of coral yellows. Cristiano watches as the youngest one stirs again, internal memory of early training kicks in by now. Before Cristiano has time to move back, James sighs quietly and his fingers loosen from their hold. James eyes flutter open, before meeting Cristiano's. A dazed smile crosses James face before he closes his eyes again. Cristiano thinks that James is indeed, young, sensitive, but also something that he's never dealt with before.

James is smiles and dark eyes. Black ink etched into golden skin. Clever and young. Cristiano thinks he needs someone like this to hold him down. Once believed that Irina was the one to do so. Or perhaps it could have been Iker, or Sergio. Though now without Iker, it's Cristiano to hold down Sergio. Though, maybe,  it could have James all along. Bright, youthful, it's almost bittersweet to look at him. Cristiano was once that, young and bright. He wonders if he's dulled to anyone. James sighs, before arching his back and stretching. Arms thrown above his head, the sheets slipping slightly.

Cristiano draws in the outline of his legs underneath, tempted to draw them back, expose James. Cristiano smiles briefly, what would James do if he had? Would he mind? Cristiano wish they were that far into their friendship. But if you're allowed to drag a sheet from someone's body, is that even called friendship anymore? James smiles again at Cristiano. Tired brown eyes, and hands reaching out. Cristiano smiles fondly, holding James hands and sitting at the edge. James leans up, but doesn't pull back his hands. Leans against Cristiano's back. Forehead pressed  against the back of his neck, warm breathe leaving slight shivers down Cristiano's back.

"Do you like it?" James sounds almost shy, his fingers tangling with Cristiano's. Cristiano has to think about whether James is talking about breathing against the nape of his neck or the city.

He goes for the latter, "It's beautiful, it reminds me of home." Cristiano can't see James, but he believes he's smiling.

"I miss it here, do you ever miss home?" Cristiano does, but with the skies shifting, and fingers laced with his own, the bittersweet sorrow seems almost dull.

Though he answers, "More or less, it get's easier." _With you_. The words are there, but he can't say them. Not yet, perhaps never. He leans his head back, and feels the quiet airy laugh against his neck.

"Next time we'll visit Portugal." It sounds like a promise, and Cristiano wouldn't refuse. Has tried before, he was met with pleading dark eyes, and a frown. It's a shattering look, and in the end James won him over with a smile and bright eyes.

James leans back and noses the nape of Cristiano's neck, before whispering, "I want to see your home, see your childhood." And it would have sounded cliché from anyone other than James. It sounds raw and unprotected. Like James is ready to die for Cristiano, follow him to the end of the world. Travel to his home and lay down everything for him.

Cristiano feels too exposed, like those simple words were too overwhelming. He's torn between making the mood lighter with something sarcastic, and continuing their moment of defenselessness. Instead he smiles, and whispers back in Portuguese, but James tries to pick up on it.

"You'd let me?" James sounds curious now, head tucked into his neck. "Was that it?" Cristiano smiles, "More or less." James nods, and smiles against his neck. And it's not like Cristiano was in love, or anything. This was common between him and James. Common between regular friends. Or so Cristiano likes to believe. Love is such double edged sword. You either picked your battles, or whoever above drove you into them. Cristiano rather choose them carefully.

It takes them exactly twenty minutes for James to begrudgingly move back. A brush of knuckles against Cristiano's cheek as he moves to their single bathroom. Cristiano lays back on the bed, breathes in the smell of spice and floral. _Distinctly James_. The quiet rush of a shower, and it takes all of Cristiano's willpower not to think of water cascading across golden skin. Across white tiles. Across James. The melody of Spanish music below makes the moment seem surreal, almost too movie-like to be real. The distant dog bark; people speaking -though sounding like whispers- below; the rush of a shower.

It's not a movie, because if it was Cristiano would be in the small shower cubicle with James. Fingers slipping across sun-kissed skin and cold tiles. The smell of spice and floral. _Distinctly James_. "It's what friends do." Cristiano whispers it to the white sheets and embroidery curtains, but wonders who he's trying to convince. Iker and Sergio were certainly close, but did Iker -or Sergio- ever wish to drag sheets off of one another, expose each other to something other than just _close friends_.

Cristiano is close to everyone, affectionate, it's called _caring_.  Or so that's what Irina had told him when his drunken two am crisis hit. He's never drank ever again. Or at least not in public, or at two am. Certainly wanting to lay in the same bed as your friend, and wearing their clothing was natural, right? Though where does the line draw at? It's a thin line between being _close friends_ and _perhaps were lovers_. Cristiano isn't in love, why would he ever love James? _Because he's everything you were and more_. The answer echos in the back of his mind, tempted to say them aloud to the sheets and embroidery. Though it dies on his tongue, just as the bathroom door opens.

James hair is wet, eyes brighter, and skin shining with the dawn. A towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Cristiano smiles, subconsciously, from where he lays on James' bed.

Though James looks sheepish, "I borrowed your towel, hope you don't mind?" It ends questioningly, as if James fears that'll Cristiano will tear him apart if James touches anything of his. But if it was up to Cristiano, he'd let James touch everything. Wear his shirts, sleep on his sheets, shower in his shower. Leave the glass doors fogged and smelling of spice.

But instead Cristiano waves his hands and scoffs. "It's fine, _James_." He makes the name sound like it's more than simply saying a name. He makes it sound as if he said, _dear_. Or something else he hasn't quite gotten the courage to say yet. James simply beams, and smiles. Moving to his travel bag, picking out a simple black shirt, grey sweatpants, and black briefs. Cristiano smiles when he realizes their his. Well, at least black CR7's. He tries to suppress a laugh. Though James catches it and turns. Pouting with a slight rosy tinge to his cheeks.

"My _mother_ bought me them." James sounds like he's whining rather than defending himself. Cristiano only smiles, putting his hands up in surrender.

"At least she has good taste." James shakes his head, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Cristiano leans up, watching as James tug on the sweatpants. "Wait, wait, do you have anymore?" With a huff, James throws the towel at him -which meets his face- as Cristiano laughs. But before he can remove the light fabric he hears a quiet, almost exasperated, mutter of " _Yes_." Cristiano smiles underneath the towel. _This isn't love,_  echoes in his head. But perhaps it could be.


End file.
